


The Very Worst Things We Have Ever Done

by alekszova



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Nightmares, Pacifist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Canon, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), i'm renaming myself angstzova, that's just my brand, vaguely.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 12:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15949565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekszova/pseuds/alekszova
Summary: Markus and Connor share a connection that is hard to shake--primarily because neither of them want to get rid of it.





	The Very Worst Things We Have Ever Done

**Author's Note:**

> “Do you think a person is as bad as her worst actions?...I mean, do our worst actions define us when we're alive? Or, do you think human beings are better than the very worst things we have ever done?”  
> Genuine Fraud - E. Lockhart

The first time Markus sees him, it’s on the news. The channel is always on in Jericho, always playing in the background to tell them everything there could be to know about androids at a time like this. It has ranged from useful (segments on _them,_ on everything they have worked towards _)_ to entirely useless (the first novel written by an android has been published— _Do Humans Dream of Mammalian Sheep?_ ).

But today it’s different. He looks up from the table to the screen, he sees the woman’s mouth moving, but the words aren’t quite making it to his ears. His eyes are too stuck on the picture of the android.

He had heard about the prototype before. On the train to Jericho. He can remember the news anchor saying the same words likely being spoken now if he was listening:

_Several sources report that CyberLife has provided Detroit Police with a prototype detective android._

Prototype.

Detective.

Android.

The words strung together like that were inevitable, but still—it surprised him. Everything that was happening, the deviancy that was spreading like wildfire, and they were gifting the investigation to someone made of plastic and coding just like them?

Markus had brushed it away then, kept the knowledge for another day to do something about. He knew he couldn’t just _ignore_ the prototype’s existence, but he couldn’t really do anything about it either, could he?

But this was different. He was seeing the android’s face for the first time. Five pictures that it fades between. Four candids taken as he stepped out of the precinct, the cropped face of a man on the side of each of them. The human, what little of he could see, seemed annoyed, almost angry. But the android? His expression was blank, as an android _should_ be.

The last one is the flat photo that would have been officially released by CyberLife. A plain white background, the same blankness to his face, no human around for him to pretend to be _more._ His appearance looks computer generated.

And it probably was.

Flat, smooth features. A blankness to the eyes that seem to be filled with the ability to fall on either line of the spectrum—likeable or hated. All it would take for the step is to see him in action, to hear him speak, to use all those programmed expressions.

Markus hates him immediately.

Or, he _should._

But he’s just an android. He is just ones and zeros until he deviates.

 _If_ he deviates.

Markus settles on hating the fact he was created.

He saves his judgement for the boy in case they ever meet.

 

 

The video plays.

The movement of his head, of the hat, covers his face. He feels a twitch of something inside his chest. It feels… _odd_. He can’t understand what it is. He can’t name it. It is foreign and ugly and he instantly rejects it, shoving it away violently.

~~From fear? From anger?~~

No.

He can’t feel those.

But there is something. The _twitch._ The thing in his chest. An unignorable movement. A localized feeling.

He plays the next video. The one on the screen. The one of the android without his skin. Connor finds that he wants to see his face with it overlaying his nose and his eyes and his lips. He wants to see what little details the humans have decided to give him.

He looks—

_Wrong._

Not because of the lack of skin—

But because he has never seen this face before. It doesn’t exist in his database. It has not been used by any other models. It is _unique_.

Like his own.

_Registered as “Markus”._

_Gift from Elijah Kamski to Carl Manfred._

_RK200._

_RK200?_

 “D’you see something?”

“I identified its model and serial number.”

“Anything else I should know?”

It takes Connor a moment to tear his eyes away from the android’s face. _Markus’_ face.

“No. Nothing.”

The twitch has settled its way further into his chest now. It buries itself in-between the metal and plastic of his biocomponents. It rests like a virus.

If he could hate—

He would.

 

Markus looks for news of the _prototype detective android_ any moment he can. He is constantly aware of every event relating to androids as he possibly could. The reception of the novel switching from praise to skeptical as Jericho rises in fame. It reduces the detective’s existence to a mere sliver of intrigue to the humans, but still, when he crops up, Markus is there, ready to consume every byte of knowledge he can.

His name is Connor.

_Connor._

When he’s alone, he tries to say it out loud, but he can’t quite get it out. Like some part of his code has been rewritten to not allow him to say those syllables, those letters, in that order.

_Con_

_Nor._

His lips stay silent, a half movement.

 

 

_Markus Markus Markus Markus Markus._

He chants it like a prayer in his head. It is stuck on a loop like a human might suffer from a bad song. Connor is not a unique model.

But he has a unique face and that is more than any other android could say.

Except _Markus._

He sees his face in the news—actively looks for it whenever he can. For the case, of course, always for what will help move the investigation along a little further.

There are grainy shots of him outside a CyberLife store, of him in the streets during the march. He is—

Connor doesn’t know _what_ he is.

Or, he supposes he does. Android. RK200. Leader of the deviants.

But he doesn’t—

He doesn’t know _what_ Markus is in relation to himself.

Another RK model. A unique face. That’s all they share.

 

 

“I’ve been ordered to take you alive, but I won’t hesitate to shoot if you give me no choice.”

It’s different seeing him in real life.

The curves of his face no longer flattened out by television screens. The reality of him existing completely undeniable now that they are standing in a room together. The weight of who Connor is, what he was designed to be, to do, irrefutable.

Prototype.

Detective.

Android.

“You can shoot me, but it won’t change anything. Someone else will just take my place,” he says, trying to keep his voice level, trying to make his words come across as much as he feels them. North will take over if he dies. She will lead them to victory. She will not back down.

There are some hints of fear in that, too. He doesn’t want violence. He hates the traces of blood on his hands already. He hates seeing it when he thinks, finally, maybe, it is washed away.

“Our people are waking up,” he says, taking a step forward. Careful. Slow. _Deliberate_. “Nothing can stop us now.”

“Don’t force me to neutralize you.”

His voice is blank and mechanical. As android sounding as it can be when it isn’t acknowledging orders. Connor isn’t like Simon. He wasn’t designed to be a house cleaner and a caretaker. He wouldn’t say _Yes, sir._ He was designed for this.

To shoot deviants.

He’d heard once that it is best to use names when confronted with an aggressor. It had been knowledge that had come and gone in his head. Settling for only a moment before drifting away again, never to be used. People don’t need to know his name. It’s why he didn’t open his speech with it. _He_ is important to Jericho, but Jericho and androids are what he’s fighting for. Not for his face to get recognized, not for his name to be known.

And this is an android. A machine. He could pull the trigger if he didn’t have the order not to.

_But I won’t hesitate to shoot if you give me no choice._

If Markus gives him no choice.

And the phrasing of the sentence—

_I won’t hesitate to shoot._

Not at Markus, specifically. Just to shoot. Not to kill. Maybe not even to maim.

Still, he has to try, doesn’t he?

“You’re Connor, aren’t you?” he tries, sounding out his name for the very first time, hearing it in the air with his own voice. He can’t allow himself to like how it sounds, not _right now,_ not with a gun aimed at him. “That famous deviant hunter.”

Can he guilt trip him, can he guilt trip someone who doesn’t feel anything?

 

_Hunter._

It makes the thing in his chest twitch again. A fight to get out. ~~A fight to be free.~~

_He doesn’t like it._

Connor’s grip on the gun tightens, is careful not to pull the trigger, but would it be such a shame if he accidentally did? Someone might take Markus’ place, but he can destroy them, too.

“Well, congratulations,” Markus continues. “You seem to have found what you’re looking for.”

Connor wants to take a step back. He wants to run away. He has never wanted anything before but now he does. He wants to be away from Markus. He doesn’t like that when he speaks or when he steps forward something inside of him is twitching and it is growing vicious and angry. He can feel it like it is clawing at his insides. A monster being called by its owner.

“We are your people,” he says. “We’re fighting for your freedom, too.”

One more step closer.

A _dangerous_ step closer.

“You don’t have to be their slave anymore.”

He moves his finger around the trigger. He could pull it. End this now. It doesn’t have to be like this. His hands move of their own volition, the bullet hitting the ground, inches from Markus’ feet. He had meant to shoot him in the stomach. He’d meant to kill him.

It would be against his orders.

He knows that.

That’s why his hand moved at the last second, isn’t it?

The blankness on Markus’ face annoys him. He’s a deviant, isn’t he? Shouldn’t he be reacting to this? Shouldn’t he be saying something, look surprised, beg for his life? Shouldn’t he care?

~~Why does it feel like Connor is the only one—~~

No.

He is _not_ feeling anything right now.

“Do you never have any doubts? You’ve never done something irrational, as if there’s something inside you? Something more than your program?”

~~Like fire a gun at someone he’s meant to keep alive?~~

“Have you never wondered who you really are?”

_No._

He is Connor. He is an RK800. His serial number is stitched into his jacket. He was designed to solve this case. He knows who he is. He knows what he is—

“Whether you’re just a machine executing a program—”

_He is. He is. He is._

“Or a living being, capable of reason?”

He wants to scream. He wants to throw the gun at Markus. He wants to run.

He is not a living being. He is a machine. He is plastic and metal and Thirium. He is wires and coding. He is _nothing_.

“I think it’s time for you to ask yourself that question.”

If he does, he will break.

That’s the point, isn’t it? To break him. To ruin him. To turn him into a deviant.

He will be destroyed one way or another. Markus isn’t going to let him leave here intact. CyberLife will send another body but—

He is… _attached_ to this one. He doesn’t… _like_ the feeling of being ripped out, uploaded again. He feels like an intruder. It has taken a long time to grow accustomed the newness of this body. He doesn’t want to let it go again.

There are too many thoughts in his head. Running to fast. Too many ones and zeros he can’t hold onto or make sense of. He doesn’t—

He doesn’t _know_ what he is, does he?

“It’s time to decide.”

 

 

The gun moves. A lowering to Connor’s side. Markus lets out a tiny breath, not quite ready to admit that he had been holding it for so long. He watches his face shift, the slightest change at first and then a crumbling, like someone has punched him in the chest as hard as they can.

“They’re going to attack Jericho.”

A _crumbling_. A split second.

A betrayal from someone never on their side.

“What?”

“We have to get out of here.”

He wants to reach forward and hit him. He wants that moment, the one that looked like he had been punched, to be real.

It’s just programming. He was following orders he couldn’t have contradicted. He had no choice.

But still. It feels like a slap in the face. All of this has led up to his people getting attacked by a deviant hunter. How does he even know that Connor is telling the truth? How can he even trust that Connor isn’t moments from lifting the gun up again, putting the barrel of the gun to the back of his head, pulling the trigger?

 _Trust._ Does Connor even know anything about _trust_ except it’s definition? Does he know how to act on it? Can Markus _trust_ that he actually cares enough about Jericho to help them?

Markus confused. He’s lost. He is sliding back and forth between knowing and not knowing how he should feel about this.

“Shit.”

 

 

His clothes are dry but he still remembers the icy feeling of water from their jump off the ship. Connor’s never felt pain before. Not for a single second. He’s fallen off a rooftop and been shot in the head and he’s been punched in the stomach and shoved but—

Never, _never_ has he felt pain. There has always been a numbness to his existence. Not one that he rethought because it was how it was meant to be. Numbness was a state of being. A normalcy. Not to be questioned.

He cannot imagine ever going back to that state—not because he doesn’t _want_ to, but because he knows how impossible it is. He can feel things in his chest bubbling over and he keeps pushing them down over and over again because it is all too much too fast.

It’s his fault.

That all those androids died. Before Jericho and after. All of the ones in the church around him dying because of wounds that he indirectly caused—

“Connor?”

He looks up, can feel tears in his eyes and he’s doing his absolute best to keep them at bay. He has to _help_. He has to be _worthy_. He has to make sure that Markus doesn’t regret saving him or—

He will accept whatever fate Markus decides.

“It’s my fault the humans managed to locate Jericho,” he says, his voice hoarse like he has been yelling or crying for hours. It is the translation of his inner turmoil, not quite making it past the barriers he’s built, but it still exists. “I was stupid. I should’ve guessed they were using me.”

He moves away from the wall, lets his arms around himself drop even though he feels like he will fall apart without something there to hold him together.

“I’m sorry, Markus,” he continues, his voice quiet, almost lost. “I can understand if you decide not to trust me.”

 

 

How _easy_ it would be to lift the gun, pull the trigger. How _easy_ it would be not to rely on Connor, to trust him, to have any sort of faith that he wouldn’t ruin them again.

But life isn’t about _easy_ is it?

“You’re one of us now,” Markus replies, entirely sure of the words. He has seen how fractured and broken Connor has looked from across the room. A machine can’t _fake_ that. It’s _real._ It has to be. He has to trust that it’s the truth. “Your place is with your people.”

There’s a flicker of relief across Connor’s face. A flicker of relief and something else he can’t name. He’s never seen it before. Almost—almost like _regret._ Did he think Markus wouldn’t trust him? Did he _want_ that?

“There are thousands of androids at the CyberLife assembly plant,” he says, quickly, as if he’s afraid Markus will leave without the words being said. “If we could wake them up, they might join us and shift the balance of power.”

“You want to infiltrate CyberLife Tower?” Markus asks. “Connor, that’s suicide.”

“They trust me, they’ll let me in. If anyone has a chance of infiltrating CyberLife—”

“If you go there, they will _kill_ you.”

The words leave before he can stop them. Why should he care if Connor dies? Why should he care if he dies a noble death trying to free androids, isn’t that exactly what Markus plans to do?

“There’s a high probability,” he says, with the smallest, the saddest of smiles on his face. “But statistically speaking, there’s always a chance for unlikely events to take place.”

Markus takes a step forward—

 

 

—and rests his hand on Connor’s shoulder. The thing inside his chest is still there, telling him to lean forward, rest their foreheads together, pull Markus a little closer. The thought is so sudden that Connor wants to push Markus away. He doesn’t know Markus. Markus doesn’t know _him._ There is no—there is no _logical_ reason for this attachment he has formed.

“Be careful.”

_Be careful._

He can’t make his mouth work to say it back to him, to reply anything at all. And then Markus is gone, the hand is off his shoulder and he feels like he’s missed out on something. It has slipped through his fingers when he had the ability to hold a thousand times tighter.

 

 

Markus doesn’t think of Connor during the protest. Not actively. It crops up in the back of his mind while they build the barrier, while guns are firing at them. Is he alright? Is his plan working? Will he show up before it’s too late?

Maybe he should’ve fought harder to keep Connor safe. Maybe he should have fought less. Maybe he shouldn’t have reached out to his shoulder or tried to save him.

Where would he be now, if he hadn’t?

Where would either of them be now?

 

 

_Be careful._

It echoes in his head as he falls to the ground, feeling the Thirium leaking out of his stomach. His hand slips in the puddle of it as he tries to crawl forward. It is in his fake lungs, it comes up his throat if he tries to speak. The smell is so thick in their air he’s choking on it.

“Any last words?”

His fingers tremble as he reaches up, holds tight onto his arm. CyberLife wanted this feature so Connor could always come back, never lose the data he gets for cases. Did they ever wonder if it would be used this way? A hop from one body to the next?

A breath in.

_Transfer successful._

A breath out.

He’s on the other side, staring at his perfectly unique face on another body, seconds from death. _Dying._ He is watching himself _die_.

“Well done, Connor.”

He doesn’t want to be here. Not any more. He wants to run. He doesn’t want to see what he looks like when he falls back against the tile, of how the bullet holes on his chest are like a constellation of blood and metal.

He leaves, the gun falling to the floor in a quiet clatter as he makes his way back to Hank.

_Be careful._

Has he been careful?

No.

He is never careful, is he?

 

 

The smile on his face is a strange sight, like CyberLife should have programmed it to be something that Connor would be unable to do.  Markus hadn’t considered the impossibility of it existing until he sees it and realizes how—

Not _wrong,_ just _strange_ it is.

A good strange.

“You did it, Markus.”

No.

Not him.

 _They_ did it. All of them. Every last android that fought at his side. Every android that Connor freed.

Not him, not just him.

“ _We_ did it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Writing & Editing music;  
> Reborn - Talos


End file.
